


Some Hurts Cannot be Forgotten, Even If You Try

by HerAwesomeShinyness



Series: To Heal, Reunite, And Return Home (Not Necessarily In That Order) [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anaire is a very supportive mother, Angst, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Issues, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I Made Myself Cry, Trauma, Usual Silm Warnings, Valinor, duh it's the house of Finwe, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-23 04:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14324400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerAwesomeShinyness/pseuds/HerAwesomeShinyness
Summary: Fingolfin and his children have been allowed to depart from the Halls of Mandos sooner than anyone would have thought possible, but is that really a good thing?Fingon, for whom death has shaken loose hurts and grudges he was trying to forget, it very much isn't. As his family is about to discover.





	1. Some Hurts Cannot Be Forgotten

Turgon was staring down at him. Again.

He had been sitting and moping on the balcony for a while now, he supposed, it only made sense that his brother would come check on him, especially considering the amount of people - their father, their mother, Elenwe, their sister, the list went on - who might have put him up to it.

The problem was, to put it quite bluntly, that if he had wanted to talk to his brother, or to anyone really, he wouldn’t have gone to the most inaccessible, uncomfortable, and abandoned of the balconies of his family’s house in Tirion, but maybe that was not an obvious enough request for solitude, maybe he needed to go and find himself a hidden mountain valley to get his family to leave him alone.

He missed Russo. He always knew when he needed company and when he needed to be alone, and usually went along with his wishes. But Russo was still in the Halls of Mandos, and while Fingon had caught glimpses of him, from time to time, his cousin had always managed to disappear before he could try and talk to him. 

He wished he had never left.

But Lord Namo had been impatient to get rid of his father, who somehow managed to get into fights with uncle Feanor even when they had actually made peace just a few years after Fingon’s own death. They managed to start to fight even after Namo, and therefore the Halls themselves, started striving to keep them apart.

So Fingolfin had been politely asked to leave, and he had asked for the release of all his children with him.

It said something towards how annoying his father and uncle had been that Namo had agreed immediately, and most of the time Fingon was grateful, for the Halls of Awaiting were very boring indeed, but sometimes, like now, he realised that he was still in need of the healing they afforded, or maybe just wasn’t ready to leave, and what was the difference, really?

Russo would have known.

If he had just stayed in the Halls, eventually Maedhros would have healed enough to be willing to talk to him, to be his Russo again. But he would never know, because he had followed his father and abandoned him. The irony was overwhelming and yet the least funny thing to have crossed his head in millennia, and considering the things that had passed through there, that was saying something.

Turgon was still standing there silently, staring at him and apparently waiting for him to say something. He had appeared to bother him and couldn’t even get his “we’re concerned about you” speech out of the way in a timely manner? He had done many things wrong in his life, but Fingon was sure it wasn’t enough to deserve this.

He sighed. Better to get this out of the way quickly.

“What do you want, Turno? Please just get it out and then leave me alone, I’m here for a reason.”

“I wanted to talk to you, you’ve been avoiding us again,” Turgon said, frowning mildly. His brother did nearly everything mildly, it was infuriating.

“And the logical conclusion to me avoiding you is not just wanting to talk to me, it’s wanting to stare at me creepily until I explode. I see. I can see the perfectly sensible train of thought that leads from point a to point b.” He could, his brother was forcing him to talk, and he was falling for it, even knowing it was happening. He hated this so much.

“It’s just. This is not like you, Findekano! You’re so quiet and reserved, and I’ve never seen like this! I’m worried about you,” his voice had been rising, but dropped to a normal speaking level again. Thankfully. “You used to be so energetic, I want to understand what’s wrong. maybe try to help. Anything.”

“If I apologise not wanting to put in the effort to maintain my usual personality, and the worry this has caused you, will you go away?” Fingon said, knowing already what the answer would be. It seemed he was more of an optimist than he thought.

“Why would you need effort to maintain your personality?” Turgon asked, apparently genuinely puzzled.

“Because, like everyone’s personality ever, it’s in part an act? I’m not sure what you want me to tell you, Turno, but in the same way that you have to control what you say to keep up that wise and stuck-up image of yours, I’m not actually the most entertaining and amazing anyone’s ever met just by opening my mouth and letting everything I’m thinking flow out,” he paused, briefly overcome by the realisation that he was going to have this conversation. 

Maybe he could stop it before it got anywhere too damaging, maybe “I used to be a lot quieter before you were born, so it’s understandable that you would be confused when I suddenly stopped being my usual scintillating self, I can’t fault you for being worried. I guess. I’ve just been thinking, and I don’t have enough energy left to bother.” _Please_ let that be enough to make him go away.

“What have you been thinking about? Maybe I could help.” Turgon said, obviously not going to leave him alone, and starting to smile gently, as he would have when talking to a frightened animal.

“You couldn’t. And even if you could I wouldn’t let you, will you go away now?” He wasn’t going to unload all his troubles on his little brother, why was Turgon still insisting?

“Maybe I can’t help, but I could still listen,” the hopeful tone in his brother’s voice was rising rapidly, and it hurt already that he would have to break that. “It might help you work through your problems to have a willing ear.”

“I have already worked through this repeatedly, I don’t need you to listen to me do it again,” he sighed “especially because you’re the last person with whom I want to talk about this.” He added, a little viciously.

“What do you mean?” Turgon was obviously trying to sound mildly concerned and yet reassuring, but his eyes betrayed his agitation, or maye fear “is it something to do with me? If it is please tell me, that I may try and set it right!”

“You can’t. To start with, because a great part of my anger is irrational, and therefore mine to deal with, and because the rest of it pertains to things long past and the only thing that will make it better is to get over it. So I am not going to hurt us both unnecessarily by telling you.” 

He sighed, again, and decided to try one more time “Will you just leave me alone, please?”

His brother was already drawing himself up to try again, and he couldn’t deal with this, he couldn’t.

“Findekano, if you are angry at me you should tell me, not just stew in it. It’s unhealthy for both of us. I won’t break if you shout at me a little, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I am not a small child to be coddled anymore.” he was obviously trying for his usual infuriatingly sensible tone, and it was working, he could feel the rage bubbling under his skin, ready to escape in words he wouldn’t be able to take back.

“Turno, while it is true that just holding in any anger I might feel, instead of just coming to you and Atar with it, isn’t the smartest idea, I don’t see how you can help. Everything I am upset about I know your reasons for, or isn’t a decision you had a hand in, so the only thing you could say is meaningless comforting blabber, or useless apologies, so I really don’t see the point of burdening you with it if it won’t even help.” Why wouldn’t he _leave_.

“Findekano, brother, if you are upset at both me _and_ Atar, maybe it’s best for the wellbeing of our family if you tell us as soon as possible, or it might break us apart.” 

And he was being so _earnest_ about it, too. 

Oh well, he’d asked for it.

Fingon drew his feet onto the chair, to resist the impulse to pace around the narrow space. 

That would be counterproductive.

He took a deep breath, and put on his fakest smile.  
“Maybe you’re right! Maybe I should just let it all out and let you two deal with it! It’s your fault, after all! Where should I start, though? Should I begin by yelling at you about your fucking off to nowhere, leaving everyone else to suffer even more, for the incredible privilege of being the last to die?” 

“Or should I start with Atar and his oh-so-dramatic suicide? And how he left me alone to deal with a realm traumatised by a devastating defeat and the realisation that their brave king had lost all hope and preferred killing himself, with a decent chance of capture and torture, to dealing with his situation?” 

“Or maybe I should start with how condescending he’s been about the whole Nirnaeth thing, like it wasn’t an attempt at buying ourselves a few years of peace, instead of a glorified _suicide_ , like how _some people I know_ died. And yes, I’m talking to you too, my lord “My glorious city is lost so I will die with it” of Gondolin.” 

He saw Turgon wince. Good. 

“That’s a lot of parallels, wouldn’t you say? Maybe that’s why it was the disappeared second son who got Atar’s body carried to him by one of the Eagles, leaving the rest of us to wonder what the _fuck_ had happened to him.” 

“Or maybe that happened because dear little Turukano, who is ever so obedient, was still distraught over the recent death of his beloved sister, which the rest of us knew nothing about, of course, and had to be helped out of his depression by knowing that his father, who he had abandoned, had died heroically and bravely, so now he had the opportunity to prove he was still capable of being a loyal son by taking care of the funeral. Which do you think is most likely, Turukano?” 

Turgon had gone pale, and was breathing a little too quickly to seem capable of answering.

“You’re right again, maybe it’s cruel of me to be talking like this, not like I didn’t warn you, maybe it’s a sign that I should still be in Mandos, instead of having been dragged out because _now_ Atar didn’t want to leave his children behind.” 

“Maybe someone should have listened to me when I asked you to leave me alone, you’d think I would know my own emotional state better than you do! And maybe, just maybe, when I say I don’t need or want your help, I might be right!” 

Maybe he had all the emotional stability of a particularly wobbly pudding because he didn’t have Russo, he just had the shredded remains of a relationship that they had been in the middle of rescuing from codependency when he died, not that his family needed to know that. 

“Imagine that, me having a valuable opinion about something! Wow! What a surprise! And now two of the people I love most in the world are crying because of me! How was this supposed to help anyone, again?”

He heard his father gasp in surprise behind him, and though Turgon was in mild shock, not just in tears, he managed to talk at this.

“Findekano, how did you...?”

“How did I know he was there? Really? I know that I used to behave like an airhead, and that I’m currently depressed and distracted by my own problems, but I’m not actually stupid enough not to know when there’s someone standing behind me! Is that what you two think of me? That I’m an idiot? Is that why you think it’s acceptable to call me Findekano, when I have repeatedly asked you to _please_ use Fingon? Because you think I’m an idiot and you know what’s best for me?” 

He was crying too, of course, he shouldn’t have blown up like this, he had only hurt his family with nothing to show for it.

He pulled his knees up against his chest and looked away from his brother.

“Please, just leave me alone.”


	2. But Some Might Be Soothed

He was sitting on the balcony again, letting his gaze wander over the familiar-yet-new roofs of Tirion.

It had been more than a week, and not one member of his family had attempted to talk to him, thankfully. He didn't want to hurt any of them like he had hurt Turgon and his father.

“Finno?” a soft voice asked from behind him. He had spoken too soon, apparently, “How are you feeling today?”

“Not like talking, Amme,” he realised this might be too harsh, “Sorry.”

“There's no need to apologise, dear, I'm not much in the mood for talking either. May I sit next to you?” 

In other times, his mother's exaggerated care and gentleness might have irritated him, but now he found it incredibly reassuring to know someone cared for his desires.

That was probably why she asked.

They spent a few hours sitting next to each other in silence, his mother reading while he, to be completely honest, brooded. Gradually he found himself relaxing, Anaire's supportive and non-demanding presence loosening parts of himself he didn't even know were tense.

Eventually someone, he was vaguely ashamed that he hadn't even tried to learn the names of the servants, brought lunch for the both of them, and he realised his mother had been planning to spend the day with him. It was nice.

“I'm afraid I lied to you earlier,” she said, as soon as she had finished eating, “I did come to talk to you. May I? You don't need to answer.”

“But if I don't answer, how will you know if I want you to talk?”

“I would take it as a no and leave you to brood in peace,” she paused, and frowned a bit, “I wouldn't be very happy about it, of course, I've missed talking to you, but your wellbeing is one of the most important things for me, dear.”

“I'll do my best to answer, Amme,” he said, trying to smile reassuringly, “Ask away.”

“Thank you, dear,” she smiled, and then turned serious again, “Finno, why did you come back with your father? You could have told him you didn't feel ready, I'm sure he would have listened.”

“I was afraid I might have to convince him, which I can never do, and I thought I was much better than I am, and I missed you,” he sighed, he was such an idiot, “I thought being a bit depressed for a little while might have been worth seeing Atar and you happy. Of course, I was overestimating myself again, but” 

But he had been summoned to talk to Lord Namo and his father immediately after one of his fleeing glimpses of Maedhros, and had been feeling even more useless and pathetic than normal. Obeying his father had been an easy fallback, a way to hide Fingon and his pain behind the loyalty of a firstborn. Not a very healthy way, of course, but when had he ever cared about that?

“Oh, Fingon,” she sighed, “I'm so sorry that you felt obliged to hold my feelings above your own. But didn't you consider that seeing you unhappy might have hurt me, hurt us, more than not seeing you?”

“I didn't. You know I'm terrible at thinking things through, and Atar looked so upset when I hesitated, I didn't want to know what he'd be like if I didn't go with him,” for someone known for how headstrong he was, (headstrong, ha! That was a good one) he really cared far too much for his family's opinion of his actions, “I don't like disappointing him, you know that.”

“You never had much problem disagreeing with him, I distinctly remember that,” she said, smiling gently, “I seem to recall quite a few arguments at the dinner table, in fact.”

“ _Disagreeing_ with him is a different thing, we all have different ideas, and it's good exercise to try and turn someone as stubborn as Atar away from his opinions. It's doing things we disagree on that's hard,” for something that had been so important in his whole life, this was really hard to explain, “I never tried to actively stop him from all that bullshit with Feanor, for example, I just tried to argue him out if it.”

“And when I ran off to valiantly rescue Russandol, I knew he wouldn't approve, so I avoided him for two weeks before I left, so I wouldn't let anything slip, because he would have ordered me to stop and I would probably have obeyed,” this was the one order he might have refused to follow, but he hadn't wanted to risk it, “I mean, he's at least a third of the reason we never -” _Shit._ He hadn't meant to say that. Could he get out of this?

“Who's we? And what did you never do?” looking at her face, he knew there was no way he'd get out of this. Shit. “Is this about your thing with Maitimo?”

“Er, the last I knew, he didn't like Maitimo very much, um, as a name, I mean, but, Amme,” what. But really, what? “Amme, you...?”

“I didn't _know_ , no, but a few of us suspected. You seemed so happy with whatever you had that we didn't have the heart to ask and potentially ruin it,” she paused, looking just a bit too mischievous for his liking, “But your father never found out?”

“We, um, we never told him, and if he found out on his own he was remarkably quiet about it.” What was going on, please, he just needed someone to explain what was going on.

“And your uncle?” Why was this so important, was this all she was concerned about?

“The Halls are still standing, so I'm assuming he also never noticed. Amme, why are you asking me this?”

“We had a small betting pool, alright?” she looked vaguely ashamed about it, yet unable to contain her glee “Finarfin is going to owe us _so much money_ , do you want a share? It's your relationship, after all.”

“Wait, Uncle Finarfin bet that Atar and Feanor would be anything other than oblivious? Was he feeling well?” his uncle had always been sensible about his bets, this wasn't normal.

“Oh no, he was drunk at the time. We'd been having a complaint session and lost focus for a bit,” she said, as if they explained anything. It did, it explained almost everything, but that wasn't the point.

“I'm not going to ask who “we” means, please never tell me,” he felt like he was forgetting something... Oh, right, “I'll take that share, when you get your winnings.”

He smiled at her.

“Thank you, Amme.” he wasn't thanking her for the money, and he knew she knew it too.

“Oh, come here, I haven't told you yet how happy I am to have you with me again.”

Fingon’s smile widened, and he went to hug his mother, as they both deserved.

Some ten minutes later they separated again, not crying even a little bit.

Anaire, after carefully drying her eyes, passed him the handkerchief, which he accepted gratefully. He'd missed his mother's hugs.

“Fingon, dear?” she asked, after they had both sat down again.

“Yes, Amme?”

“There must have been things in Beleriand that made you happy, could you tell me about them?” she said, smile turning somewhat sad, “I realise that I wasn't there for a rather fundamental part of your life, and I would like to learn all about it, if you'll let me.”

Where could he even _start_? The sunrise through the mists of Hithlum, the stars over lake Mithrim, Russandol's smile every time they managed to meet, riding over Ard-Galen in the spring, feeling the wind in his hair while standing on the pass in the Ered Wethrin, the first time he had visited Himring and had spent a full day racing Russo all over Lothlann, the moonlight on Russo’s hair, the sheer love, and joy, and triumph that had overwhelmed him after Dagor Aglareb when he saw his cousin alive and well, Atar's smile while he was holding little Gil, _Russo's_ smile when holding Gil. Russo's smile when holding _him_.

The freedom.

Even at war, with all the responsibilities of a prince, and then a king, he had been so free.

Beleriand had been so beautiful, and despite the pain he had suffered there he still loved it so much.

He started to talk, then gesture, then draw.

-

By the time the sun went down, he had almost run out of paper three times, his throat hurt, both he and his mother had cried, and he couldn't stop smiling.

“This is getting kind of exhausting, Amme, can we continue another time?”

“Of course, dear. I'll leave you alone for now.”


	3. And Some Hardships Can Be Fought

He hadn't talked to his father and to Turgon in more than a month, and had managed to avoid being alone in the same room as either of them, if barely.

Fingolfin was currently occupying the kitchen though, neatly standing in the way of his strategy of sneaking into the pantry to eat while still avoiding his family.

This was a problem.

Not as big a problem as whoever was sneaking up on him, maybe, but still a problem.

“So, Finno, why are you hiding in the hallway like an idiot?” Irisse whispered behind him. Of course it would be her, “Is it perhaps because you are one?”

“You know perfectly well why it is, Irisse. Can you distract Atar for me?” His sister had been willing to help him, in the past, he could only hope that much hadn't changed, “Please?”

“Oh, I have a much better idea!” She said, triumphantly, “I'm going to kidnap you, and we'll raid all the berry bushes in the backyard, and maybe have a bit of a talk.”

Oh no.

“You. Are a menace. And I hate you.” He turned and smiled at her, glad they seemed to be slipping into their former dynamic so easily, “Lead the way, monster, you always have the best ideas.”

They spent the strawberries teasing each other (Irisse teasing Fingon, as he futilely tried to defend himself, really), the blueberries making fun of Turgon, their traditional form of entertainment, and had gotten about halfway through the gooseberries, Fingon's favourite, before Irisse started the talk she had threatened.

He had really been hoping she might hold out until the blackberries, he thought, when she turned towards him and asked “So, have you actually talked to Atar and Turno since you yelled at them?”

“Obviously I haven't,” he said, chewing resentfully, “Why do you think I was avoiding them?”

“Because you're a coward who's terrified at the idea of standing up for yourself,” she looked at him unusually seriously, challenging him, “Aren't you?”

“... Yes. But you didn't need to put it like that.” He said. Just because she was right didn't mean she could go and tear him apart like that, what happened to politeness? Or pity, in this case, “And it's not the only reason, really.”

She raised a supremely unimpressed eyebrow, obviously copied from their grandmother, not that knowing that lessened its power.

“Really?”

“If I tried to talk to them, I'd start trying to justify myself, and then I would eventually start talking about Russandol, and I don't want to talk about Russandol with them.” Because he was a coward. Damn his sister, she was always right.

Surprisingly, she sighed, “I can't really fault you for that, I guess. It's not like I've talked about Lomion with Turno, or even with Atar, not more than absolutely necessary.”

“What happened with Lomion, by the way? I wasn't really paying attention when, you know.” When his sister has made the choice to leave the Halls, even leaving her son behind, he had been somewhat distracted by who he was abandoning.

“He said it was obvious I wanted to go, but he felt it would be best if he didn't leave,” she sighed again, her determined good mood fading away, “He was probably right, but I don't like it. And I think his reasoning wasn't one about healing, but that he thought he didn't deserve to leave.”

“You're worried about him.”

“Of course I'm worried about him!” She shouted, “I'm his mother and he's suffering! How could I not worry?”

“Some would argue that he deserves to suffer,” he said, carefully omitting the fact that those some included members of their own family, “And that he might not be worthy of your care anymore.”

“Nobody _deserves_ to suffer! And anyone who thinks like that is an idiot! People can deserve punishment, but suffering isn't an appropriate punishment, it doesn't teach anything! It doesn't heal what caused people to commit crimes, it doesn't even bring very much satisfaction to anyone who was hurt in the first place, not if they're decent people!”

She paused for breath, her eyes blazing, “It's just stupid, and inefficient, and a waste of time that might be spent repairing the hurts one might have caused! How can you say things like that? You're the one person who should know this.”

“Of course I agree with you, Irisse, completely, what I'm saying is that other people don't! And that however right we are, anyone who disagrees with us can completely discredit any argument we try to make by calling us biased,” he sighed, “Which we are, don't try to deny it.”

“Maybe others should also try being biased. Just because what Lomion and Maedhros did was worse than what we and the rest of our people did, they deserve to suffer? Is the line between deserving forgiveness and deserving suffering defined as “doing something worse than me”? Because I'm not the hypocrite here, and perhaps my bias is the only thing that lets me see that,” she looked like the princess she was, her eyes burning with anger and her voice filling with ever more passion, and power. 

“Aren’t we also murderers and traitors? Weren't we pushed by far lesser forces than what pushed them? Didn't they suffer already, if people really need them to be punished? Why are we so easily forgiven, because we died farther away from our crimes? Why didn't _we_ deserve to die? Because someone we didn't personally hurt wrote the history books? Because we died “tragically”? How is that in any way just?”

Fingon could feel the power his sister was unintentionally putting into her words, as the few doubts he'd had about his opinion were suffocated under the bright light of her personality.

“Irisse, if you want people to be rational about this, maybe you should try to be more careful about how obviously you use words of power to express yourself,” he said, frowning, “It tends to discredit one's argument. And I'm being an idiot and nitpicking. Forgive me.”

But really, he thought, vaguely noticing that he'd had a berry in his hand that he had been neglecting for the last ten minutes, wasn't it best if he, who agreed with Irisse, spent some time trying to find all the weaknesses in her argument? She was smart enough not to be insulted by it, he shouldn't have apologised.

“No, no,” she said, cutting through his thoughts, “You're right. How I say things is important, you're not nitpicking, you're helping. Keep going, I know you're good at speeches.”

“Very well,” he said, proud of how reasonable she was being, “Then consider, who do you want to convince? Uncle Finarfin? The Valar? Atar? The general public? Russandol and Lomion? Because some arguments aren't going to work equally with all factions. Do you want to do this with the two of us speaking together, or should one be in front? Some things will sound far more convincing if you say them than if I do, and vice versa. How will you react if you fail? Or if you succeed? Planning ahead is important here, it's lucky that you can, and you should use it.”

“For someone who pretends to be an idiot you're a really good politician, you know?” Irisse said, probably not insultingly. This time.

“You don't have to start calling me names,” he said, every inch of his body full of outrage and shock, “I'm trying to help, I don't deserve this sort of treatment.”

“You absolute idiot,” she said, smiling fondly, before turning serious again “We should work on how to convince Lomion and Nelyo. If we can convince them we can convince anyone, it isn't really possible to be as stubborn as them.”

One could argue that trying to outstubborn some of the most hardheaded people in existence, as they were doing, was a sign of truly impressive determination, which might even be called stubbornness, but it was probably best not to get into an argument about details like that.

He was self aware enough for that, and very nearly proud of it. 

“So, I was thinking of starting with the fact that very few of us are truly innocent, and then move into how being deprived of our loved ones is hurting us.” Irisse said, with deceptive nonchalance.

“Start with the logical arguments, then hit them with the emotional manipulation?” he raised an eyebrow, trying to look skeptical, “I didn't think you had it in you to be that cold.”

“Oh shut up. Like you didn't have the same idea.”

“Ah, but I'm a politician, it's to be expected from people like me.”

She punched him in the shoulder, somewhat kindly.

It still hurt a lot though, she'd always had a mean right hook.

“Before we get to the optimal emotional manipulation though,” he said, trying to stay serious, “I don't actually know Lomion all that well, while you know Russo. Could you tell me about him?”

She smiled, a bit sadly, perhaps, and pulled him onto a bench.

“He was always quiet, enough so that I'm sure it was his natural personality, and not... Eol,” she sighed, and looked down at her hands, “Of course, I may be telling myself he was a naturally quiet and solitary child to pretend I was a better mother than I was, but I don't _think_ so.”

“He was always so clever, he used to ask so many questions when he was little. I tried to encourage him, but he started trying to figure things out without help far sooner than I would have liked,” she sighed again,”Although maybe I'm just being selfish. Wanting to have had him more to myself while I could.”

“Of course, if I'd stayed with him longer, if I hadn't died when I did, there wouldn't be any need for me to worry about him now,” she said, smiling sadly, “He would have nothing to feel guilty for.”

Fingon let out a harsh, bitter, laugh, “I really wish I could say I don't know how that feels.”

“To know that by dying I destroyed the person I care for most in the world. That he became a hated monster, just because I wasn't there for him,” he said, grimacing, “It probably means that I did something wrong before, for him to be so dependent on me.”

“Oh please, Russandol was a disaster even before... everything. But he was an adult, before you were, in case you forgot that detail, and you weren't responsible for his mental stability, he was.” She shook her head, as if to clear it, “Unlike you, I'm Lomion's _mother_ , I should have tried harder to make sure he could function without me. I just thought we'd have time.”

“I know people keep telling us we have the same personality, but must we really have the same life as well?” He said, “Because that is one of my most recurring thoughts, these days.”

“We always think that we'll have enough time, don't we?” The brash confidence with which she had dragged him into the garden had disappeared, replaced by his scared, sad, and hurting little sister, who seemed tired and pale in the bright sunlight.

Carefully, making sure she saw him move, he wrapped himself around her, pulling her into his arms so she could lay her head on his shoulder, and started smoothing down her hair, as he had done when she was a child and would come to ask him for consolation.

“Ssshh, Irisse, don't worry, we can deal with this, we can work together and fix this,” he kept making small soothing noises and rubbing slow circles against her back, “Don't worry, I'm here, I won't leave until we have them back.”

Their planning would have to wait, now the most important thing was for them to hold themselves, and each other, together.


	4. Healing Will Always Come

He was dreaming.

There were many small signs that made it obvious, from the way he was standing on the slopes of Taniquetil, despite never having gone that way since his return, to how he was surrounded by singing butterflies, to how the Trees were shining, as beautiful as in his fondest memories, in the distance.

The fact that Irmo was standing in front of him was also a dead giveaway.

“Fingon,” he thought, no, Irmo said, “I have been asked to talk to you.”

“You know, this could be a lot less disturbing if you at least pretended to actually talk. You know, with a moving mouth and everything”

The figure standing in front of him smiled, not quite perfectly, but it was still nice.

“Very well,” Irmo said, and though the words still felt like his own thoughts, the movement of his face did make the whole thing a lot nicer, as predicted, “I am here with the task to comfort you, so I will do my best.”

“Someone thought I needed your presence to be comforted, instead of just a pretty dream that explains everything and nothing?” That was the Valar's usual approach, when they felt like telling people things.

“My brother is of the opinion that you need to have a dialogue, and possibly ask questions,” Irmo said, looking vaguely confused, or maybe just tired, it was hard to tell, “I offered him the chance to do this himself, but he felt you might not want to talk to him.”

“I wasn't in the best of moods the last time I met your brother, I can understand why he might want to avoid me, but why would he think I don't want to talk to him? He's one of the people I most want to talk to in the world,” Namo was usually pretty good at predicting people's reactions, he was _Namo_.

Wait a second, he wouldn't...?

“Couldn't it be that Lord Namo doesn't want to talk to me? Is he scared I'll pull a Luthien on him? Because I'm not that good a singer.”

Irmo's pale face lit up in sudden amusement, for a second, before he returned to his usual placid expression, which nonetheless seemed more like a smile than before.

“I believe he is afraid you'll start tearing up, and he won't be able to stop himself from handing you your friend before the right time,” Irmo's form fluttered in what was probably amusement, “He is a... a softie, really, and having Maedhros around is something he finds extremely depressing, if helpful.”

“Helpful?” Fingon did not want to know why exactly having Maedhros around was depressing even to Namo, but this was interesting.

“Apparently he has taken to avoiding his own healing by helping others. Which he is quite good at, my brother says, but it is slowing down his recovery, enough so that he hasn't yet realised that recovery is something he should aim for,” Irmo shrugged, more or less, “And however much Namo wants to get rid of him, and let someone who understands him and can make him focus on himself help him, there _is_ a minimum of psychological stability that must be reached before he feels confident in releasing a soul.”

“But he is planning on releasing him?” that was a question that applied to all of the more drastically doomed members of his family, but in this moment he only cared about Russo.

“Eventually, everyone who wishes to do so will leave the Halls of Mandos, fear not. And that includes your nephew, your friend, his brothers, his father,” Irmo shuddered a little, “Once we figure out how to get him to cooperate, of course, but we're working on it.”

“Uncle Feanor gets pissy when he had nothing to do with his hands, so you should take that into account. Oh, and keep him until you've managed to kick out all his sons, then remind him that they need him, and he should behave for their sake.”

“That... was the plan as far as I know it. You are good at this.” Irmo's face, it turned out, could express a frankly insulting amount of surprise.

“I _do_ know my relatives,” Fingon took a deep breath, thankful that it was as calming in dreams as much as in the material world, “But please, do you have something you can tell me about Maedhros and Lomion? A vague timeframe? Anything about how they're doing?”

“I will be talking to your sister soon, so I will leave it up to her to tell you about her son,” Irmo smiled gently, “I can, however, do better than telling you about your friend. Give me your hand.”

He did. 

The world moved.

Fingon recognised the shadowy yet bright space of the Halls of Mandos, the, well, halls, that seemed to stretch forever in any direction, and yet were full of twists and turns and hiding places, but the small push to his mind that made him want to reconsider his life choices was absent.

He wasn't really there.

Something moved in the corner of his eye, and nothing else mattered anymore. 

It was ashen-dark, in a way that was obviously covering the bright light underneath, still seeping through in sparks and flashes.

It was like a fresh ember, so recently a fire, and ready to reignite at a moment's notice.

It was beautiful.

It was Russandol, for all that he looked nothing like himself.

He was also not alone, talking to the near unbearable light that was Feanor, wavering between an obvious desire to help him with whatever was distressing him, and running away from the realisation, equally obviously hovering at the edge of his consciousness, that Feanor was only this upset because of his son's inability to recognise him.

He couldn't make out what they were saying, but still, it was impossible to miss when Russandol remembered.

His form blazed with bright light, flames reigniting, in a way that looked remarkably like his hair. For just a second, he looked like the man he had been.

Then he screamed. Fingon couldn't hear it, but he could. He knew it, he knew the way he curled into himself, the way Feanor recoiled in shock and regret, he'd seen them before. They had had bodies at the time, but it was still painfully familiar.

The way Russandol, his light, his pain, slowly, carefully, disappeared under ash and shadow, that was new, but still so horribly him.

The scene paused, frozen as Feanor reached out to lightly lay his hand on his son's shoulder, which was, he noticed, very slightly less dark than it had been before.

“This conversation happened shortly after his arrival in these Halls, and similar ones have occurred since then. Every time he seems to retain more, so our hope is that he will eventually remember enough to want to leave, and focus on healing,” Irmo approximated a smile, “I think that he is on the right path. He will recover, one day.”

“I... Thank you, Lord Irmo, for telling me this, but I still don't understand _why_ you're telling me.” He will recover, Irmo had said, he will recover. He would have Russo back, some day, he just had to wait. Nothing else was important, why was he still asking questions?

“There are two reasons: you are annoying, and we do not wish for you to keep bothering us until Maedhros is ready to return to you. And because you are in pain, and we hope that knowledge will soothe that pain, until it can be healed properly,” Irmo ran one of his hands, strangely cool, and yet warm and comforting, down Fingon's cheek, “Now wake, and be calm.”

-

He was woken up by his sister screaming in surprise and joy downstairs.

The sun shining through his window, the clothes he hurriedly put on, the feeling of the stairs under his feet, the hallway he was running down. They were all the most beautiful he had ever experienced. This was happiness, this was hope, he had nearly forgotten.

Irisse was on the floor, clutching someone he couldn't distinguish, but it was obvious who it was.

He had met Lomion before, but then the boy had looked tense, scared, more than he would have expected from a hurried meeting before a potentially disastrous battle. Now all that fear was gone, and he was crying tears of joy in his mother's arms.

Or maybe they were Irisse's tears, fallen onto his face as she desperately kissed him.

“Finno!” She exclaimed, apparently aware enough that she had heard him approach, “Finno, look! They told me he'd be back soon, but I wasn't thinking... Finno, come here please!”

Seeing his sister happy was one of the best feelings he had ever experienced, and it was so easy to kneel on the ground next to her and his nephew, and put his arms around them both, keeping this moment of joy safe from the world, even in Valinor.

“I'm so happy for you both,” he said, squeezing them a little tighter, “But can we not do this on the floor? Tearful reunions are a lot better when you're comfortable.”

“You ass, I hate you.” Irisse said, carefully standing up without letting go of Lomion, who smiled at him thankfully, like someone who had really wanted to get off the floor, but also _really_ hadn't wanted to say anything.

This was good.

Perfect would come eventually, and he could wait.

-

“Fingon! Can you come out?” His father's voice drifted in from the garden, and he briefly considered the best way to answer.

“Of course! Give me a second!” He shouted back when he realised the obvious thing to do, and started quickly putting away his journal.

He had started writing it some centuries earlier, when he first received confirmation that Russandol would eventually return to him. It was a way to feel like he was talking to his best friend and lover, a way to collect things he wanted to talk to him about.

It was one of the things most dear to him, so it made perfect sense to put it carefully away before jumping out of a window.

Not directly to the ground, of course, he wasn't that stupid, and the house's face provided him with more than enough convenient handholds.

As he climbed down he turned, to see who was here, that his father wanted him. There were three people, his father, his cousin Finrod, looking a bit uncomfortable, and-

Oh.

His foot slipped, and he forgot how to move his hand to catch himself.

But it didn't matter, Russo would catch him.

Russo was always there, when it mattered, and now Fingon had him back.

He was never going to let go.


End file.
